The Pilgrim's Staff: Poems Divine and Moral

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Duffield, 1906 - 134 pagine

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Pagina 87 - Nothing in my hand I bring; Simply to thy cross I cling ; Naked, come to thee for dress ; Helpless, look to thee for grace ; Foul, I to the fountain fly ; Wash me, Saviour, or I die.
Pagina 47 - Weep no more, woeful shepherds, weep no more, For Lycidas your sorrow is not dead, Sunk though he be beneath the watery floor. So sinks the day-star in the ocean bed, And yet anon repairs his drooping head, And tricks his beams, and with new-spangled ore Flames in the forehead of the morning sky...
Pagina 34 - The Sundays of Man's life, Threaded together on Time's string, Make bracelets to adorn the Wife Of the eternal glorious King. On Sunday, Heaven's gate stands ope! Blessings are plentiful and rife; More plentiful than hope!
Pagina 11 - Death be not proud, though some have called thee Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so; For those whom thou think'st thou dost overthrow Die not, poor death, nor yet canst thou kill me. From rest and sleep, which but thy pictures be, Much pleasure, then from thee much more must flow; And soonest our best men with thee do go, Rest of their bones, and souls
Pagina 44 - Mincius, crowned with vocal reeds, That strain I heard was of a higher mood : But now my oat proceeds. And listens to the herald of the sea That came in Neptune's plea, He asked the waves, and asked the felon winds, What hard mishap hath doomed this gentle swain?
Pagina 43 - Phoebus replied, and touched my trembling ears; "Fame is no plant that grows on mortal soil, Nor in the glistering foil Set off to the world, nor in broad rumour lies, But lives and spreads aloft by those pure eyes, And perfect witness of all-judging Jove; As he pronounces lastly on each deed, Of so much fame in Heaven expect thy meed.
Pagina 45 - The hungry sheep look up, and are not fed, But, swoln with wind and the rank mist they draw, Rot inwardly, and foul contagion spread : Besides what the grim wolf with privy paw Daily devours apace, and nothing said : But that two-handed engine at the door Stands ready to smite once, and smite no more.
Pagina 42 - Tempered to the oaten flute ; Rough Satyrs danced, and Fauns with cloven heel From the glad sound would not be absent long, And old Damaetas loved to hear our song. But O the heavy change, now thou art gone, Now thou art gone and never must return ! Thee, shepherd, thee the woods, and desert caves, With wild thyme and the gadding vine o'ergrown, And all their echoes mourn.

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